


Blue-Grey-Green

by Rushar



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 16:50:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rushar/pseuds/Rushar
Summary: They told me this was my best option for my mental illness in this area.It was horrible.





	Blue-Grey-Green

I could stare at these walls for hours and I would never be able to tell you what color they were. They were blue-grey-green, but not in the way that makes a person's eyes beautiful, no, not that color. It was a color that made one hate the people who picked out the color, because I would have preferred the suffocating white walls of the lockout room to this awful, indistinguishable shade.

  
There were no windows to look out of in this room - not that there would be much to look at anyway. The few minutes a day I got to be in a room with a window, secured with four inch thick glass, the only view I had was overlooking the dirtiest, grungiest parts of the city. The hospital was in the centre of a homeless colony, surrounded by concrete blocks and neon fast food signs, enticing me with treats that I would only throw up later.

  
The lounge where I sat now could hardly be considered a lounge. Medical trays sat out in the open and an elderly security guard made no secret of keeping an eye on us. Nurses watched from a room at the back, behind glass, safe from the crazy kids. They wouldn't want to catch the "disease". There were no doctors around. They had better things to do than look after us and help us.

  
There were two tables, and seven chairs, all white. There was one couch, and flimsy picnic benches shoved together in a line. Young kids, anywhere from seven to twelve, sat at the benches and the couch. There were too many. I wondered what could possibly be happening that elementary school kids would be driven to this blue-grey-green room. Melancholy teens playing cards with worn down edges, too many of red threes, but only two blue sevens; an incomplete Uno deck.

  
I sat, making a puzzle. On the one, old TV to my back played a kids show. I wondered how much acid the creators of the show had taken. I knew that the puzzle, like the Uno deck, would be incomplete. I put another piece on anyway.

  
Two people helped me work. One of them told me his Name wasn't what the nurses called him. His Name was not so feminine, not the one given to him. I called him by the Name he chose, and he called me by my Name that I chose. The other, had a smile. Her smile was kind, as though she didn't belong here. I wondered why she was here. I didn't ask.

  
The rules of the room were on a printed board. No contact information, don't ask why people are here, no touching others. I asked the people at my table if it was okay, that if I needed to get their attention, that I could tap their shoulders. They said yes.

  
The boy was a veteran. He had earned a gold medal in the hospital. He knew exactly what to say, blatant lies falling from his mouth, words that dodged the truth, but contented those who asked. I watched, I learned. I was quiet, I got by purely through acting indifferent. I acted as though it wasn't needed for me to be here, though I didn't hide the marks on my wrist. They believed me.

  
We had two therapy sessions a day. Group therapy, and art therapy. Group therapy was annoying. We had to pretend to be happy, without getting better. Group therapy was about how to be happy, but we didn't know how to not be angry or depressed. They never taught us that.

  
Art therapy was better. We placed beads on pegs and ironed them together. I made a star, rainbow. I was good at this. I helped others make theirs because I finished early. It was over in fifty two minutes exactly, and it was back to the lounge. One day for art therapy, a lady gave us a coloring page and crayons. It was as though they were trying to incite regression, from the "activities" that were given.

  
At lunch, we were marched to the cafeteria, crammed into an elevator like sardines, but still not allowed to touch. Those with claustrophobia suffered. We walked down a hall filled with the adult mental ward patients. They stared at us, like they had never seen teenagers before. I avoided eye contact.

  
I made a mistake and got the chili.

  
I knew I wouldn't be able to eat hot dogs again after this.

  
I had a notebook, I wrote stories in it to distract myself. There was a clock, but it was too far away for me to see without my glasses. If I had to go the bathroom, I had to walk past solitary. There was a window to see in. A pure white room, a tiled floor, cold light. No imperfections. I wondered how anyone could calm down in there. It would drive me mad. I watched one person be put into solitary - she had a mental disability, clear that she didn't have the best control of her words or actions. She was punished for being born flawed. I trembled, in fear of the white room, but kept silent.

  
I rarely spoke. When I did it was quiet. I answered questions. I didn't tell the truth. I physically couldn't, it felt like it was going against my entire body if I did. So I lied, told them I had only attempted once, that my scars were not an attempt. Is it an attempt if you wanted to die but were too cowardly to do it? I had tried four times, four tallies on my wrist. My body was scorekeeper. I didn't tell them that.

  
I only talked around the people at my table. I didn't tell them much about me. I said I was gay. The boy was too. The girl said nothing, just put another puzzle piece in. I don't remember her name anymore.

  
I remember the boy's name. We broke the rules. I learned his Name, found him in social media after we got out. We no longer speak. He was uncomfortable with me liking him.

  
I learned nothing while I was there. Nothing to help me, or to encourage me. My mental health was not considered a priority while I was in that room. It was a holding cell with the illusion of healing. There were no resources, too much time to plan my next attempt. Just blue-grey-green and too many kids, waiting to be switched out by those on the waiting list.

  
It was a place that could drive you to insanity, waiting for recovery.

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of real events that happened about a year ago. It was really blue-grey-green, teenagers were really given coloring sheets to "help", and i really made the mistake of having chili on my hot dog.  
> We weren't even allowed to wear shoes.


End file.
